


Dauntless

by Karasuno Volleygays (ToBeOrNotToBeAGryffindor)



Category: Tennis no Oujisama | Prince of Tennis
Genre: Dealing with injury, M/M, Second-year Third-years, preslash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-28
Updated: 2017-12-28
Packaged: 2019-02-23 06:13:24
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,668
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13184040
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ToBeOrNotToBeAGryffindor/pseuds/Karasuno%20Volleygays
Summary: Fuji has always had his eyes on Tezuka, who is standoffish at best. However, one failed phone call changes everything.





	Dauntless

**Author's Note:**

> This was written for the Tenipuri Secret Santa hosted on Discord, and it was a gift for @kuroteni on Tumblr.

_He’s staying late again._

Fuji sighs as he watches Tezuka perform volley after volley as they bounce off the practice wall. Official club activities ended almost two hours before, but a sparse few linger to hone a particular shot or their overall skill. Most of them are the non-regulars, eager to snatch a spot in the upcoming ranking tournament.

Fuji doesn’t have to worry about that, of course, and neither does Tezuka as the freshly minted team captain, but as a master of his craft, Fuji can see the value of honing one’s abilities until they’re sharp enough to cut. One of these days, he might get to test out that forged strength, but not today.

Not when he sees Tezuka squeeze his eyes shut and massage his left arm.

The injury has lingered for over a year, Fuji knows. Tezuka doesn’t say a word about it, but it’s written in the telltale prodding of tender flesh, in the sharp intakes of breath every time Tezuka delivers his trademark drop shot. He also knows it isn’t just the elbow anymore, either. Months of neglect and overcompensation have begun to wear away at Tezuka’s shoulder, as well, making it hard for Fuji not to notice the signs that his friend, his captain, is slowly and surely running himself into the ground.

So he watches and watches and waits for the point where Tezuka needs his support and might actually take it.

It’s almost dark by the time Tezuka wraps up his training, and they both head home in opposite directions. Fuji returns to a quiet house, with Yumiko off to college and Yuuta now boarding at St. Rudolph Academy. His parents aren’t the noisy sort; his father is reading the paper while his mother plays hearts on the family computer.

His soft call of greeting is met with a smile from his dad and a cheery wave from his mom, but they soon drop back into their respective activities while Fuji treks upstairs to shower off the day’s sweat.

He’s toweling his hair dry when he hears the phone. Not the house phone that either of his parents would surely answer, but his mobile. However, as soon as he makes it to his desk where he had set it to charge for the night, it stops.

Curious, Fuji flips it open and checks the call history.

ONE MISSED CALL  
テズカクニミツ

His eyes widen in surprise. It has been more than a year since he and Tezuka had exchanged numbers — first house phone numbers and then mobile — but this is the first time the latter has initiated contact. Fuji has called Tezuka a few times to arrange a meet-up or ask for help on his math homework, but he tries not to intrude on Tezuka’s precious and finite downtime.

It’s hardly been worth noting, as their contact via the tennis club has afforded them plenty occasion to communicate face to face, but this aberration is enough to give Fuji pause, as well as the abrupt end of the attempt. And Tezuka is hardly the type to do something like that on accident.

Fuji glances at the pajamas he had laid out for the night before heading to his closet for a pair of jeans and a hoodie, instead. Gathering his keys and phone, Fuji heads down the stairs to the living room where his parents are still plugging away at their respective diversions.

“Can I go over to Tezuka-kun’s house?”

His father lowered the newspaper and gave Fuji a long, intent gaze. “This late? Are his parents okay with it?”

Recalling a small sliver of information Tezuka had deemed relevant to share a few days before, Fuji replies, “They’re away for the weekend visiting his grandmother in Osaka. He stayed behind so he wouldn’t miss school or practice. I want to make sure he doesn’t need anything.”

“Alone?” Fuji’s mother’s lips purse in disapproval. “He’s only thirteen. What if something were to happen to him?”

With a harrumph, Fuji’s father said, “Oldest thirteen year old I’ve ever met. Tezuka-kun doesn’t seem like the trouble type, and Shuusuke isn’t, either.” Shaking his paper back open, he added, “As long as it’s okay with your mother, you can go. Just keep to the main streets.”

Fuji doesn’t look over at his mother, but he can feel the ease of normalcy draping back over the room. “Give Tezuka-kun our best,” she relents, returning to her game.

All ready to depart, Fuji quickly treks over the few kilometers separating the Fuji residence from the Tezukas’. A little over a half hour later, he climbs the steps leading to his destination, but as he raises a fist to knock on the door, he hesitates.

Tezuka has not minced words when stating his dislike for unwanted contact — including but not exclusively pertaining to physical, verbal, or otherwise.  But something about that aborted phone call makes Fuji think this particular instance might not be so unwelcome.

With that, he finally knocks.

Still in his club warm-ups, Tezuka answers the door with a noticeable note of surprise on his face. “Fuji.”

Fuji gives a slight wave and a smile. “I was in the shower when you called,” he lies. “You didn’t leave a message, but I thought you might want some company.”

Tezuka’s eyes narrow, but he steps aside and gestures toward the inside of the house. Fuji toes off his shoes and follows Tezuka to the living room. On the kotatsu, he spies an exercise resistance band and the weekend’s English homework. “Oh, were you busy?”

“No.” Tezuka picks up the band and stows it in his tennis bag next to the stairs before returning for the book. “The homework is finished. I was double-checking for accuracy.”

“Oh?” Fuji spares a glance at the assignment he hasn’t even started and hums. “Is that the right form of ‘there’?”

The book slaps shut and Tezuka says flatly, “It is.” That follows the band into the bag, and Fuji’s fingers clench around the trim of his cushion.

“I’m curious about why you called,” Fuji poses, though he doubts even Tezuka knows the answer.

Tezuka freezes but doesn’t look away. Finally, he replies, “It was an error.”

Tezuka’s word choice does not elude Fuji. Error, as in mistake. Not accident, as in inadvertent. Tezuka had wanted to impart something to Fuji, to share something with him, before deciding it wasn’t a good idea. Fuji itches to know this elusive thing Tezuka couldn’t tell him over the phone, but all he can do now is hope Tezuka hasn’t discarded the idea of sharing entirely. There is a limit to how much Tezuka can be pressed for information before the dam shuts down and nothing flows through.

“Would you like some tea?” Tezuka asks.

Smiling, Fuji nods. “That would be nice.”

When Tezuka heads for the kitchen, Fuji looks around the room. It isn’t the homiest place in the world, with several baubles placed in ways that suggested look-but-don’t-touch. Much like his host, he notes. The rest of the room is tasteful décor, accompanied by a smattering of family photos to remind Fuji that Tezuka didn’t even smile as a kid.

The sound of breaking glass comes from the kitchen, and Fuji heads in to investigate. There is a smashed teacup on the floor, but Fuji barely gives it a second glance. What draws his full attention is Tezuka standing over it, gripping his shoulder while biting his lip to keep from crying out.

Fuji carefully steers Tezuka around the spill and into one of the kitchen chairs. Delicately, he runs his fingers over the area Tezuka is protecting and his eyes bulge in surprise at the heat emanating from it. “Take off your jacket,” he commands, and even as Tezuka stares in surprise, he complies. “Now your shirt.”

Fuji swallows as he takes in the sight of Tezuka’s exposed elbow and his shoulder, both blotched an angry red. He wants to demand answers about why Tezuka has kept his condition to himself, why he hasn’t told Fuji or Oishi or Ryuuzaki-sensei about it, but he doesn’t need to ask. Tezuka is Tezuka; he is more likely to witness Mount Kilimanjaro bow to a typhoon than his captain, his teammate, his friend admit that he is anything but the sturdy pillar he was charged to be.

Instead, Fuji opens the freezer and takes out a bag of frozen edamame. Tezuka watches him silently as he takes the kitchen towel hanging off the handle of the oven, swaddles the bag, and then presses it against Tezuka’s overheated flesh.

Neither of them speak as Fuji carefully shifts the makeshift ice pack from one inflamed spot to the other. However, the quiet makes his mind spin into action all the more.

Fuji knows all about Tezuka’s injury from the previous year, but by all official accounts, it had been treated and Tezuka cleared to play. But ever since their first and only match against one another, Fuji has never taken his eyes off of Tezuka and his injured elbow.

He doesn’t know how he could have missed this sort of development, nor how Tezuka has managed to hide the extent of it from Fuji’s sharp watch. Fuji has been concerned since he thought the injury merely a niggling one, but he never considered that it could be something like this.

Finally, Fuji breaks the silence. “How long?”

Fuji sees the battle in Tezuka’s eyes as he is no doubt contemplating whether he should lie or say nothing or simply tell the truth. It’s a surprise to Fuji when he sees Tezuka’s shoulders droop and his head to lower. “A while.”

By the way Tezuka is unable to look him in the eye, Fuji wagers that it has been on the longer side of ‘a while’ that he’s endured this level of pain. There is a rush of something Fuji can’t quite name flowing through him — something with hints of anger, of sadness, and something a bit more primal.

But Fuji tamps it down and ices Tezuka’s shoulder until a hand covers his and halts his ministrations. Tezuka looks up at Fuji, face expressionless save for a smattering of softness in the corners of his eyes. “Thank you.”

“Of course.” Fuji knows it isn’t just for the ice pack, but for watching over Tezuka and knowing what Tezuka had wanted to say in that phone call.

Tezuka is the first to shatter the moment. “It’s getting late,” he says, looking over at the clock above the sink.

“It is.” Fuji nods but doesn’t take his eyes off Tezuka, lest he miss an important cue. “Would you like me to leave?”

“No.”

“Do you want to be alone?”

“ _No._ ”

Fuji nearly gasps at the emphasis, but the message is loud and clear. “I’ll be right back.” Heading for the stairs, he sits and calls his house, and when his mother answers asks if he can stay the night. She agrees, and Fuji heads back to the kitchen. “You should get some rest,” he suggests even as he bobs his head in the direction of the stairs.

“Yeah.” Tezuka follows Fuji’s lead and they head upstairs and to Tezuka’s room that Fuji has only seen twice. Tezuka rarely invites him over, instead consigning their meet-ups to more public places. Fuji has never minded; it’s just the way Tezuka is. But this trek up the stairs is different than the others Fuji has made. It’s not a school night and Saturday morning practice is not compulsory, and there is no mistaking Tezuka’s will in the situation.

Tezuka wants him to stay, and Fuji’s going to do just that.

Turning on the lamp on his desk rather than the overhead light, Tezuka heads for his closet and pulls out a t-shirt and shorts, handing them to Fuji. Tezuka averts his eyes as he starts to change, something that strikes Fuji as odd, as they change in front of each other and a fair number of people in the locker room, but he follows suit nonetheless. It isn’t as if he can say that he hasn’t previously noticed Tezuka in a different way than the rest of his teammates as they dress in the club room.

And he can’t exactly say that anything else about this evening falls into the realm of normal, either.

Ready for bed but not remotely for sleep, Fuji sits on the edge of Tezuka’s futon and waits for Tezuka to do the same. “So, were you trying to stretch your shoulder with the resistance band?” Tezuka nods. “Have you seen a doctor?”

“No.” Tezuka purses his lips. “My shoulder injury is a result of overcompensating for my elbow injury. Keeping the muscles limber is the best way to start the healing process.”

Tezuka’s explanation sounds like it’s straight out of a textbook, and Fuji isn’t terribly surprised. It is, however, something else far worse for Fuji — disappointment. “You should have told Ryuuzaki-sensei.”

Shaking his head, Tezuka says, “I would not have been allowed to play.”

“Then you could have told me,” Fuji asserts, mouth drawn in a grim line. “Is it really so hard to trust your friends, Tezuka?”

Fuji expects Tezuka to react to the censure in his voice, to be angry at the presumption or at the invasion of his highly-sought privacy, but he can’t possibly foresee _this_.

Tezuka Kunimitsu, the Pillar of Seigaku, is blushing.

Unable to suppress a chuckle, Fuji says, “You should do that more. It looks good on you.”

Tezuka glowers. “Humiliation?”

“Showing how you feel.” Fuji scoots closer so Tezuka can’t look anywhere but at him. “There is no shame in being hurt or needing help. Nobody is strong enough to deal with all that alone. Not even Tezuka-buchou.”

“I know.” Tezuka meets his gaze and asks, “Fuji, can you help me stretch my shoulder?”

“Of course.” Fuji bottles a sigh of relief and gives Tezuka a genuine smile he doesn’t have to cajole out of himself for show. “Just tell me what to do.”

With that, Tezuka demonstrates the correct stretches until Fuji can both feel his own shoulder muscles ease and like he can perform the motions in his sleep. Finally, Tezuka’s hands fall away and he waits for Fuji to initiate contact. His entire skin humming in anticipation, Fuji crawls behind Tezuka and prods his arms into action.

When he hears Tezuka groan at the sensation, Fuji has to close his eyes and take a deep breath. For once since they got to know each other, Tezuka is allowing Fuji into his state of mind. Fuji cannot, _will_ not, breach that little bit of trust because of something as stupid as a crush.

After all the repetitions of stretches are complete, Fuji lowers his hands and curls them in his lap. “All done. Does your shoulder feel better?”

“Yes.” Tezuka doesn’t turn around, but rather stays facing the far wall of his room. “Thank you, Fuji.”

“Anytime.” Senses still wired into high gear, Fuji grabs his clothes and folds them into a makeshift pillow before lying down next to Tezuka’s futon. “I won’t tell anyone if you don’t want me to. But you should.”

“I know.”

“Good.” He rolls over to meet Tezuka’s gaze, which is free of his glasses. “You look more at ease than you have in a long time.”

“I’ll talk to Ryuuzaki-sensei tomorrow.”

Fuji can’t suppress a smile. “Would you like me to come with you?”

“I’ll manage.” Tezuka gives Fuji a ghost of a smile that lingers after he closes his eyes.

_Of course you will, Kunimitsu,_ Fuji thinks, his nerves finally relaxing enough for sleep to come. _Tezuka_ , he mentally amends. Neither of them are ready for _that_ yet.

His last thoughts before drifting off are of how lucky he is to stand side by side with the strongest person he’ll ever know, and whatever feelings he may or may not have can’t take that away from either of them.

**Author's Note:**

> I toyed with the idea of having the story go further than a shared moment, but neither of them are at that point and it would've been OOC. I hope you enjoyed the fic, and thank you for reading!


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